


waiting for the night

by belovedmuerto



Series: depeche mode inspired stories [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM?, Depeche Mode inspired, M/M, dm fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happens like this, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waiting for the night

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third (of six) in the Depeche Mode themed-ish-whatever-you-wanna-call-it stories that theplatonicnonyeah and myself are doing.
> 
> A mild warning for a bit of consensual... stuff of, I suppose, a vaguely BDSM nature, if that's not your sort of thing; at least you know it's here now.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Castiron for beta-ing, and to theplatonicnonyeah for being my cheering section, and to red_adam for Brit-picking.

It happens like this, sometimes.

The case takes hold and everything else falls by the side of the road.

And when the case is gone again, solved, put to rest, tidied up with a nice bow on, sometimes, the brightness encroaches.

The world goes overwhelming; his mind, so fine-tuned and sharp, betrays him. With nothing productive to latch onto, it latches on to everything. The cacophony is razor sharp and he bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, until--

Well, _until_. For a long time, it was until he had pumped himself full to the gills with cocaine. _Before_ John.

The first time it had come on after John moved in (after they started sleeping together, before Sherlock realized just how ridiculously in love with the man he was), the world went fever bright and fragmented around the edges and the bleeding (bleeding data, bleeding deductions, _bleeding_ ) had already started before they’d even left New Scotland Yard. John had chattered softly at him the whole cab ride home, watched him closely with altogether too shrewd eyes, and it had done _nothing_.

 _John catches the look in his eyes, always catches it; John hails a cab, JohnJohnJohnJohn_ only _John_.

Usually John’s voice is soothing, a balm against the abrasions, soothing where it touches him, but it hadn’t got through, didn’t do a bloody thing to hold the world together. The cracks widened, split, shattered into sharp fragments. Nothing had ever worked to hold the world together except the drugs, not when it went this pear-shaped this quickly.

 _John works better than the drugs ever did. He smells better, too. And his kisses are a drug unto themselves._

John had drawn him into the flat with a steady hand, drawn him into their room and Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to cry in frustration and pain.

 _John does the same now, always murmurs in his ears, always uses gentle hands, touches Sherlock as little as possible so as not to overwhelm him further._

John didn’t understand, couldn’t understand; _this can’t happen now I'll die_ , he'd thought.

 _John understands like no one else ever has. How does John understand? What mechanism exists in that seemingly ordinary man that makes him so remarkably extraordinary in this way, so perfectly attuned to Sherlock's every thought?_

John had slowly undressed him, murmuring nonsense.

 _John undresses him quickly now, knows the silk and wool are irritating against skin too raw, against nerves too close, too sensitive, too much data._

John had gently laid him on their bed, naked, while Sherlock shuddered and tried not to lash out, clenched his teeth against the hateful things that wanted to come out of his mouth. He had tried to be receptive, despite the awareness, the fear, that sex could very well send him straight off his nut with his mind in overdrive.

 _John murmurs filthy things while he settles Sherlock in the bed, and Sherlock's body reacts. John chuckles and moans and promises; promises the world to Sherlock. The sex will be later, after he's settled, after John says it's time. Sherlock doesn't lash out, doesn’t resist, but he presses a kiss to the inside of John's forearm while John works to make sure the knots will hold. A kiss, a promise, a thank you._

John had tied him, bare and spread-eagle, to the bed, still murmuring absolute nonsense.

 _Ties him. Bare. Spread-eagle. Cock straining against his stomach. Aching._

John had blindfolded him.

 _Black silk, the only input against his skin other than satiny smooth cotton sheets, freshly laundered. How does John always know?_

Had leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

 _Presses a kiss to his cheek, nips at his cheekbone. Turns on the little fan that provides the white noise, just enough that Sherlock can’t hear when John checks on him. Sherlock's bones have already turned to liquid in the confines of his own skin, the restraints keep him anchored to the world. His nerves have already ceased most of their screaming._

Had said, “Settle now.”

 _“Quiet, love,” he murmurs in Sherlock’s ear._

And left him there.

 _And leaves him there._

For hours.

 _Hours upon hours, John sits in the lounge, reading a book, watching telly; waiting, listening. He checks on Sherlock often, but Sherlock can’t hear, doesn’t know. They're both waiting. Waiting until he surrenders, until his mind quiets, until the tranquility steals into the quiet room, into the raw spaces in his mind._

Until the night fell.

 _Night falls. And John comes back._

**Author's Note:**

> perhaps it goes without saying, but this one was at least vaguely inspired by 'Waiting for the Night' which is on the album Violator.


End file.
